I loved you from that first moment. you, fussing with the
potted palm in the corner of the room. I made bad jokes.
And you smiled, for the life of me, smiled, and laughed.
In that moment, I was yours. We could have been made
for each other. We could have struck out this solitary
existence learning to hate and love all that was in ourselves.
But then I heard about her. And I knew, all of a sudden,
that I had been too late; that she had swallowed you whole,
taken you somewhere. It was a place I didn't know. A place
I had seen before but willed myself to forget. And now,
all that was inside you was a fire, burning furiously
in a bell-jar. I cried. Night after night, I cried for you,
dreaming, all the while, of that flame, cooled and wetted
by what she had done. You denied it. But I saw the pictures.
Saw them all. And, somehow, I began to love her, too
felt the cut of her indifference, how she grew so big
that soon, I too felt her grow too big in my hands, too
cumbrous, heavy, beautiful, sprawling, that my fingers
twitched and fumbled at her being. I didn't even
know her. But you did. And I knew you. That
was enough. Enough to believe that she was something
great. Greater than any mountain our cloud or even
death. I could see that you were living your life
in the wake of her. And somehow, still,
I was living my life in your wake.